


Torrential Downpour

by Lavender_Whalebones



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Anal Sex, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-09 14:49:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19478137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavender_Whalebones/pseuds/Lavender_Whalebones
Summary: As a vampire hunter, Aziraphale is supposed to do precisely that, hunt vampires. Only he finds his job particularly difficult when it comes to one specific vampire. Needless to say, Aziraphale's affections for Crowley are incredibly inconvenient.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first time playing with an alternate universe where Good Omens is concerned. I've got quite the plot in mind for this one. Fair warning, there will be a few chapters devoted entirely to smut, I don't make the rules.

Little children held hands and sang songs of fire and ashes, the frills of their dresses flared as they spun in their circles and they clung to one another with iron grips. It was not the first time Aziraphale watched from the doorway of his library, nor was it the first time that children hand sung of that infamous day. Though it happened centuries ago, he couldn’t possibly expect them to appreciate the gravitas of the event. 

To many, that day was the grandest victory that the Aram Legion had ever experienced. A whole clearing, burnt to a crisp, smoke rising towards an overcast sky, the smell of smoldering skin waging war on Aziraphale’s nostrils as he watched from a hill not far off in the distance. It was a mass execution of about two hundred vampires, all tied together and lit aflame.

To some, such as Aziraphale, the day was one of the grimmest in human history. He did not attend the ignition ceremony, and his absence was not unnoticed, Gabriel confronted him soon afterwards. In compensation, Aziraphale had spun a tall tale about not wanting to lose his lunch and having an allergy to burning flesh.

It was only when he was left alone did he hear the rustling of the underbrush. 

“‘Ts a bit pretentious is it not? _Aram’s Legion_ , little on the nose if you ask me.” He was not a pure blood. Crowley began the same way Aziraphale did, blessed in the sanctity of the church, sipping from the chalice of eternal life and pledging the many years ahead of him to the cause. The cause being the violent hunting of supernatural entities that threatened the holiness of the general public. Lured good men from the light and into the darkest corners of reality, turning even the most devout of worshipers into wretched creatures of the night. The undead, an unnatural state.

Crowley had once detested those beings. At least, he’d claimed to. Sure, those claims weren’t the firmest but when was Crowley ever _firm_ when he spoke? At most, it seemed Crowley was slightly inconvenienced by them, as though they’d simply cut in line at the market or said something unsavory about his mother. 

“Oh dear… you’re not supposed to be here, you do realize that right?” Aziraphale didn’t dare to look back at him. He wasn’t entirely certain he was alone, and he was not afraid for his own safety, but for Crowley’s.

“Well I wouldn’t want to miss a good barbecue now would I?”

Brows furrowed and nose wrinkled in dissatisfaction with the vampire’s answer. Crowley once told him, before all of this, when they were younger, that whenever Aziraphale did that it reminded him of a bunny on the brink of sneezing.

“Honestly Crowley, you must stop gambling with your life. Two hundred of your people just-”

“Oh _my people_ are they? So you’ve finally come around to lumping me in with the best of the degenerates, thought you never would. Look at you now, a real standup headhunter.” Crowley mocked, standing beside him with folded arms. His skin had once been so full of life, a warm olive toned tan, now an almost gray color, eerily unscathed.

“You musn’t blame me Crowley, you did _choose_ to run into the dark, you are a vampire. You and I, we are eternal enemies, the battle between good and evil, light and dark, I-I shouldn’t even be talking to you.” Aziraphale tensed where he stood, gripping the dagger that sat at his waist, coated in a fine layer of holy water and blessed at the foot of the cross.

“Run? No, more like… sauntered vaguely into the shadows. Wouldn’t want to scuff of my boots.” 

“I… I’m half of mind to kill you, you know?” Aziraphale held back a grin and postured, tilting his chin up, “Give you a good stabbing for all your troubles, it is the way things are meant to be.”

Within seconds, Crowley took Aziraphale by the wrist, where the hunter held his dagger, he brought it up to his own neck, brows raised expectantly as their bodies rested flush together. “Come on then, bleed me like a hog, hunter.” He challenged, the corners of his lips upturned as he met that trembling gaze. 

“Crowley you… you aren’t… you cannot be serious.” Fingertips barely held the handle of the blade, and if it weren’t for Crowley holding his arm he may have dropped it completely. 

Hues of golden flickered over the shorter man before him, this man he’d known for all his life, this man that had not abandoned him even when everyone else had. He looked to Aziraphale with disinterest at best.

“Answer me this, Aziraphale.” he demanded, furrowing his brows as he leaned forward, the tips of their noses brushing up against each other as they shared the breath between them. 

The dagger fell to their feet and hit the ground with a sure thud. Crowley gripped the front of his shirt with both of his hands, two fistfulls of high quality fabric against a firm, hunter’s build. Aziraphale nodded, lips fallen and parted, and though it was something he’d never admit out loud, he marveled at the sheer sense of power that emanated from the vampire’s presence.

“Are your eyes blue or… gray?” he suddenly asked, not moving to pull away, so though they remained where they were, the tension that Aziraphale felt slowly melted to his feet, slithered away into the underbrush. 

“Well I suppose… it would depend heavily on the present lighting.” Aziraphale retorted, shoulders falling comfortably. He hadn’t the slightest problem being close to Crowley, it was being threatened that terrified him. The thought that his dear friend might actually harm him, or even want to for that matter. He really had become quite the firebrand. He wasn’t sure how that settled within him, it wasn’t something Aziraphale was used to. Though it also wasn’t something that bothered him either.

“Huh…” Crowley rolled his lips together, pursing them and shrugging casually, “What a great fearsome hunter you are, real scary, very tough.” Finally he released Aziraphale, just as the first drop of rain fell from the sky, followed by another, and then a slow trickle that would hopefully extinguish the residual flames.

“You think so?” Aziraphale asked, opening his umbrella and holding it over the both of them. 

“Never killed a fly in all your life, but sure, you’re a right spooky fellow.”

The hunter and the vampire smiled then, in the privacy that the brolly offered them, staring out at the vast, ash darkened clearing. 

It had been roughly one thousand, five hundred and thirty years since that day. Aziraphale still hadn’t harmed a fly. To be fair, it was far more acceptable during the medieval ages to go on witch hunts and vampire burnings. Now people were more concerned with their be-bops and whatchamacallits.

Aziraphale swore with every passing day he could feel himself disconnecting more and more with society, yet he still retained more humanity than his fellow hunters. The order was still in place of course, it flourished in the larger cities. London for instance. Though it hadn’t been official, Aziraphale often considered himself retired, decommissioned if you will.

Not because he was no longer taking orders, but because he had been left relatively unbothered for many centuries following the Great Burning at Briarcliff. 

Until today.

“You’re really the only one that has any experience with Crowley.” Gabriel poked about his collection of organized crime novels, pulling one out of its place and flipping through it idly. “He’s a… unique case, I guess you could say. The two of you were what… boyfriends? Back in the bad old days.”

“Very close.” Aziraphale elaborated, folding his arms over his chest as he waited for his tea water to boil, leaning against the little table in the library lounge. 

“Right, whatever. He’s been sighted in this general area, nearly killed Officer Michael, but they got him good before he got away and we’re gonna need you to take care of that, probably as soon as possible. Maybe right now, really whenever you’re available - but if you don’t we’ll probably execute you. Capisce?” Gabriel tossed the novel aside and it slid off the top of the shelf, toppling to the ground. He paid no mind to it though.

Aziraphale swallowed and twiddled his thumbs together, “By take care of, why you don’t mean-”

Gabriel made a cutting motion horizontally along his neck, nodding once, “Do him a dead, he’s been a nuisance for centuries, his death is long overdue. All the people he kills? Mounds of paperwork. It’s exhausting. I can trust you with that, right?” 

“Ah yes well, of course, _obviously_ , pip pip then.”

The floorboards creaked in protest of Gabriel’s boots as he strutted across the lounge towards the door. “... Okay. I really would advise against disappointing me, Aziraphale. Probably wouldn’t be within your best interest. Just saying. Do enjoy your… dirty leaf water.” The door slammed on his way out and Aziraphale couldn’t tell if it was the wind or Gabriel that had done it, but two more books were sent toppling to the floor upon impact.

The kettle whistled something fierce, but even over its sharp tones, Aziraphale heard the faintest of knocks at his backdoor. The furious steam died down as he set the pot aside, approaching the sound and turning the knob carefully, the scent of rain intermingling with something metallic.

“Ah, I never thought he would leave... do tell me how can he _walk_ with such a fat stick up his arse?” He was soaked and winded, and yet even through his wheezing pants he still managed to laugh at his own joke. Ginger hair sticking to his face as he leaned against the railing of the back patio. Aziraphale’s eyes (arguably a deep gray but possibly a pale blue) widened considerably when he noticed the stream of red that bled from his clothing and onto the ground, washed away with the torrential downpour.

“Oh Crowley… why would you come to me?” He almost whispered, a pleading question. He knew what he had to do, but he also knew what he wanted to do. Aziraphale was a man ruled primarily by his desires, only loosely restricted by his responsibilities. 

And he was sure Crowley knew that, he was sure Crowley would answer with something along those lines.

“... because I haven’t anyone else to turn to.” And just like that, he’d fallen forward, right into Aziraphale’s arms.


	2. Cronuts

“I could have sworn I said three sugars”

“No, I’m quite certain you said two. Stop wiggling about, you fidgety thing.” 

If Gabriel knew that Crowley were sprawled across the sofa in the library’s lounge with Aziraphale by his side, carefully stitching through his flesh, he likely would have lit the library itself on fire and gone on with his day. 

“So your prissy friend, what’d he have to say?” Crowley winced as the needle went in once more and wire threaded through punctured flesh, blood pooling along the cut. It was a rather deep wound, one that would most definitely scar over. Had it been any regular wound, perhaps it would have healed on the spot. But this particular wound was the nasty product of a certain dagger, one that each and every hunter was equipped with. 

“For god sake’s Crowley you come to me, bellows to mend, soiled with blood and you have the gall to ask what _I_ was up to?” Aziraphale said, shaking his head incredulously as he let alcohol trickle down over the open wound.

“Yesss” Crowley tilted his head back against the cushion as he hissed out, shutting his eyes tight and breathing in deep before releasing it slowly.

His shirt had been discarded, thrown somewhere to the side, Aziraphale found that he enjoyed the way that the muscles along the vampire’s torso crept beneath his skin, flexing with each movement, a lean sort of musculture, not at all unpleasant. “Have you got a problem with that?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, thoroughly exasperated by just how casual Crowley was. “Well if you must know… we were talking about you.”

“Oh I know that” Crowley grumbled, running a hand over his face, through his damp hair.

“Why, well then what good does it do you to ask?”

“Had to know if I could trust you, there’s an awfully large amount of untrustworthy folks around these days.”

Aziraphale’s lips parted and he paused in his work, leaning forward, “It actually crossed your mind that I had intent to betray you?”

“Well kind of yeah.” He spoke lower, his voice hitting a quiet gravel before he grunted loudly and gritted his teeth at Aziraphale’s handiwork.

“Oh dear, did I hurt you?”

“No no, I just _felt_ like making noise” he glared down at the hunter from behind his circled lenses, “Of course it hurt! When you poke people with needles it tends to do that!”

“Well it wasn’t my intention, you needn’t _yell_.” Aziraphale pressed a hand to Crowley’s thigh, his touch lingered, squeezing it tenderly, unspoken words against rain soaked pant legs. Of course they’d seen one another over the years. But visitations had to be sparse and few in between, otherwise they’d be risking death, from both of their respective sides. 

So each time he found himself face to face with Crowley, Aziraphale went soft. It was fair to say that the hunter was soft as it was, though equally so it was fair to say that around Crowley he teetered along a melting point, the vampire could reduce him to such a raw, sappy creature, without even trying.

“ _You needn’t yell_ ” Crowley repeated, openly mocking the other at his side. 

“Oh come now Crowley, don’t be juvenile. I understand you’re in a great deal of pain, but I’m only trying to help you… Besides, mockery only encourages me.” The corner of his lip upturned as he took a small break to sip from his tea cup.

“Ah yes, probably shouldn’t tease the man who’s needling away at my skin now should I?”

“It was you who said it, not I.”

The finished product was neat in comparison to most, but haphazard in comparison to Aziraphale’s usual presentation. Crowley clearly took note of that, furrowing his brow as he eyed the stitching suspiciously, “I do say Aziraphale, getting a little sloppy now are you?”

“Is it really that slapdash of a job, Crowley? I wasn’t expecting it be bang-up but… Well it will heal nicely I’m sure. Would you like me to retrieve a new shirt for you? Must be rather breezy.”

Crowley leaned back against the lounger and shrugged, “Only if you’d like me to wear one.”

The cheeky bugger. 

Aziraphale stood, hands stained a soft pink as he cleared his throat and shifted anxiously. “Well… I… You know it isn’t safe here for you, right? Aram’s Legion, they know you’re in London, they might even suspect that you’ve taken residence-”

“Still going by that title huh? Not much of a legion if you ask me, couple of girl scouts with switchblades and suddenly they’ve got a _legion_ \- aye did you hear about that new bakery opening up on seventh street? Heard they’ve got these new pastries, call em cronuts.”

“Crowley _please_ , this is a very serious situation.” Aziraphale wiped his hands down with a damp rag, turning to the vampire with upturned brows.

Crowley leaned back against the cushions behind him and clapped his hands together, “Oh I am quite serious, I have always wanted to try a cronut, there was this one video on the Facebooks, have at this, apparently it takes them four-”

“ _Crowley!_ ”

“Fine fine, you’re right, is that what you wanted to hear, hunter? Do you feel better now?”

Aziraphale faltered and took a seat at the table, turning his chair to face Crowley more directly. “I am very concerned for your safety.” His gaze lingered over the plain of muscles that sat at Crowley’s lower stomach, the row of horizontal stitches on his left side, “You being here, that is a direct danger to your livelihood. This is no game, you cannot play backgammon with your life and I will not allow you to destroy yourself.”

“Well it wouldn’t be me destroying myself now would it? Technically it’d be you. Either that or the both of us, real poetic way to die dontcha think?” Crowley was joking, but his tone was weak, the chuckles that followed were halfhearted.

“There is nothing poetic about dying Crowley, all that blood isn’t beautiful, it is only red. Frankly I would rather neither of us died, especially you.”

Crowley chuckled again, this time, he sounded tired. Clearly he’d had a long day. Aziraphale suddenly felt quite guilty for keeping him up, forcing him to engage in conversation. 

“What, have you grown to fancy me Aziraphale?” He asked, jokingly - or perhaps not - it was always difficult to determine whether Crowley meant something or if it were just some theatrical irony. 

“... You’re exhausted. Come, you may stay one night but,” he stood and stared at the other firmly, “but only one night. Then we must find some means of smuggling you out of here unseen. It’s a miracle it was raining as heavily as it was tonight, if any of them caught wind of your presence, especially Gabriel-”

“Yeah yeah, execution, I got it the first time. You know I could just kill him, easy peasy.” Crowley stood as well and allowed Aziraphale to lead him carefully up the stairs. Though at the proposal, Aziraphale paused and turned back to him, standing atop the last step, 

“You musn’t joke like that, if you were to even glance at Officer Gabriel wrong, the entire legion would be afoot.”

“Oh god forbid they ever be a hand.” Crowley muttered, stepping past him and heaving a long sigh.

Aziraphale went to retort when Crowley nearly fell over. He caught the vampire with both arms, and in return, two arms wrapped around him to keep himself steady. “How long has it been since you’ve… partaken?”

“ _Partaken_? Awfully frilly way to describe sucking the life out of people.” Crowley grumbled bitterly. He’d always had a problem with that, for a vampire, he wasn’t very good at drinking people’s blood. The two of them honestly, were quite bad at their respective jobs. 

“I take it that it has been some time then?” Aziraphale spoke quieter, guiding Crowley to his own bed, a cozy king size with a soft yellow comforter and baby blue accents. An ivy sprawled itself across the ceiling from a pot at the window sill, and though it was a library that Aziraphale lived in, there was still a bookshelf against the far wall, a dresser against the other. Quite minimalistic. 

“A bit, yeah.” Crowley finally admitted. 

In that moment, both of them knew what needed to happen. There were little words shared between them as Aziraphale peeled off his jacket and plucked the top three buttons of his shirt down, laying beside Crowley comfortably. This wasn’t the first time they’d done this. Any normal human wouldn’t be able to withstand the feeding. Aziraphale was no normal human however, he’d lived many centuries, practicing magical arts, made immortal by a chalice long since lost to crumbling civilizations of the past. 

Basically, surviving a gentle prick of the neck and lost blood was a walk in the park for him. Perhaps it was even… pleasant. To feel Crowley’s breath against his throat, the scrape of teeth and the gentle sting of the bite. Crowley was never a softer being out of those moments. He cooed and purred and held Aziraphale so nicely. A grip that the hunter never wanted to escape.

He supposed this was what vampires did though, they lured and seduced. They sedated and fed. Even so, Aziraphale felt a bubbling guilt within him at enjoying it all so much. The experience was something akin to orgasmic, though neither of them would ever admit that. 

Nor would Aziraphale admit that these moments were often revisited on his loneliest nights.

Once Crowley had finally pulled away from him, leaning far closer than was necessary, Aziraphale stared up at him with a glittering fondness, tired as he was. 

“I would like to taste of these… “cronuts” as you called them.”

Crowley was quiet for several following moments, staring down at Aziraphale with a gaze that made him weak at the knees. 

“... We will have to visit that bakery then, before our impending doom that is.” He joked, laying down and raising his hand, a single snap of his fingers and the room was consumed by darkness.


	3. Intermission - 150 A.D.

There were always rainy nights. Crowley couldn’t recall a single night in the past many nights of which there wasn’t at least a single drop of rain. Really it was all quite inconvenient, especially for this particular night. For this was the night of sauntering - vaguely of course, in a specific direction.

Perhaps towards the shadows, but at night there weren't really a whole lot of shadows, it was all just one big shadow actually, the euphemism made little sense to him. It was just a means of beating around shrubberies, never directly mentioning the undead by their names because they were the unmentionables.

Crowley was unmentionable, even before he was professionally unmentionable.

Speaking of unmentionables.

“I’m soaked to the bone here, got water in all the wrong places, do ya think we could scurry this along any faster?”

Beelzebub shot him a glare as they all stood in a circle between the towering tree tops and near flooded forestry. She was a vampire of high stature, and though she did little more than bark in Crowley’s general direction, not four days ago did he have a dagger at her throat.

A dagger that he did not use that day, a dagger that was buried beneath a massive elm tree somewhere in Annica once he realized it was something he never wanted to use.

“You dare rush the process of a dark communion?” Ligur hissed as the mud at the center of their haphazard ceremonial circle bubbled and brewed to life. 

Crowley took a step back and gazed upon the simmering soil with pointed skepticism. He certainly hoped they didn't intend on making him drink that. “Well… yes, I do have things to do.” 

“What better an act to commit than to pledge your eternal soul to the ranks of the old gods?” Hastur retorted, looking especially mucky, even by 150 A.D. standards. When he put it that way, well it really sounded like Crowley was making somewhat of a commitment here. 

“Ah well… could be… eating from a fine vine of grapes or contracting typhoid, you know, the usual.” Crowley could feel himself sinking into the muddy ground, he shifted, sloshing about, his sandals making unsavory noises against wet dirt.

“I do hope for your own sake that you’re making harmless fun, it isn’t my eternal soul that I’m wagering with here.”

“Ah yes blasted eternal souls yada yada right, let’s get to the point now shall we?” Crowley raised his brows, grinning at each of them as he tapped his fingers against his thoroughly soaked garments impatiently.

“... You will step into the circle, and together we will summon the shadows themselves, they will be your rebirth.” Beelzebub held both of her hands out to Hastur and Ligur, the three of them making a connection around Crowley, who seemed utterly unbothered.

“Rather seems like a triangle to me-”

“What?” Hastur snapped, eyes glowing an infernal red.

“... Right then, so I just stand here and oh-... Oh is that… is that supposed to happen?” The mud trickled up his legs, encasing them where he stood and slowly creeping further beneath his clothes, coating his skin uncomfortably.

“Don’t speak. The gods are judging you.”

“Well I think they like what they see considering just how - _Oh_! Take me out to dinner first sir I am - this is supposed to happen right?” The mud was hot, it crept between his legs, along his torso, bleeding through fabrics and cutting through clothes. Perhaps he really should have thought this through first. He'd really gotten in with the wrong crowd this time.

Often Crowley panicked at the very last moment. It was as though he experienced a panic _lag_ , his conscious only kicking in not when he poured gasoline all over himself and lit the match - but rather once the fire was already licking at his ankles. 

Only in this case the fire was mud, and it was simmering up his torso, dragging him down further into the muck. Ligur and Hastur seemed only vaguely amused, whereas Beelzebub rolled her eyes, “Stop panicking.”

“Hate to break it do you darling but that seems to be exactly what I’m doing.”

“It only hurts more when you panick.”

"Blasted blimey bullocks! It's supposed to _hurt?_ " He exclaimed, only then reevaluating his own actions. What an impulsive thing he was. On the bright side, if he survived, it'd be quite the story to tell Aziraphale. If Aziraphale weren't too busy trying to kill him that was.

Whatever it was that was climbing him, it was black and viscous in consistency, tar like. It smelled of a deep decay, rotting meat and raw sewage amalgamating in his nostrils. 

“Is it too late to take a raincheck?” He nearly shouted, arms tucked behind his back, as though the muck were coiling, slick tendrils tying him down. Hastur and Ligur were chanting, words shared beneath bated breath. He could not hear them, and he didn’t think he’d be able to decipher them if he could. 

“Rescheduling this is off the table right?”

Beelzebub broke the chain, her hands settling behind her back, her eyes closed tight, oil riding up the sides of his neck, cementing him in place and encapsulating his whole body from the ears down.

And then it was in him. Not the muck, you perverse creature. No, rather, a dagger of about five inches in length. Sacrificial carvings lined both sides of the blade, crafted from metals he’d never seen in his life. Though to be fair it was quite dark and he was in fact in the process of being stabbed, taking note of the metal wasn't at the top of his priority list. 

A sharp gasp escaped him, eyes widening and vision blurring. Even in the dim light, the heavy downpour, he could see her hands. She was bleeding from deep wounds in her palms. Her eyes were open but they were solidly black. She was bleeding _into him_.

It did make sense. Rebirth was the product of death after all. Crowley just hadn’t thought it’d be so literal. Nor had he thought it’d be so painful. What he did think of however, was Aziraphale, his dearest friend. How Crowley had betrayed him. He hadn’t realized it up until the very end.

He’d left his best friend in the whole world for a taste of sin. 

That was why he screamed. The pain egged it on enough, but had that not been weighing on his shoulders he could have stifled the tears, the graveling shriek that escaped him. A shriek that was thoroughly silenced when the foul ink filled every crevice, his eyes, his nose, his mouth. Suffocating him, devouring him.


	4. Finishing the Job

The sun was a bothersome thing. One might think it be something dangerous to vampires, that one would be wrong. The sun was merely inconvenient at worst, and that was mostly because Crowley was somewhat of a spoiled sport in the mornings, the complete opposite of Aziraphale really - in nearly every facet of personality.

Which is why he released a low grumble of protest when Aziraphale arose and shook the bed as he got to his feet. He did not open his eyes, but the light bled through closed lids and he shifted, pulling the pillow over his head. 

“Oh no you don’t, Crowley you get up this instant or I swear I’ll… I’ll…”

Crowley waited. These were moments he lived for, hollow threats and endearing fumbles. Why, he couldn’t really recall any other reason he woke up each morning, other than to look forward to the next time he got to see Aziraphale face to face, rather than sending him long winded letters rambling on about nothing in particular. The hunter sent him similar pieces, only they typically came with some dried flower arrangement. 

The fruity fellow, honestly he didn’t know why he put up with Aziraphale.

Ah yes, that’s right, because Crowley was hopelessly in love with him.

“Or you’ll…” he peeked up from the bedding, raising his brows as his lips stretched into a rather devious grin.

“... Or I’ll so conveniently forget that you prefer your tea with three sugars rather than two. Do not _test me_ Crowley. I am a bit of a firebrand myself.” Was he flirting? It was always so painfully difficult to determine. Was Aziraphale even capable of flirting? The walking enigma of a man.

“ _Ha!_ ” Crowley shifted to face him and pushed the blankets off of himself, only sparing a small wince at the pain in his side. “Aziraphale, a firebrand, it’s been fifteen hundred years and you’ve finally developed a sense of humor. Bravo my dear, bravo… now you’ve just got to gather the courage to change that haircut of yours.”

“How rude, I happen to think it’s quite stylish, my barber calls it timeless, he’s a nice fellow he is.”

“Has to be to put up with your nonsense.”

The hunter pouted as he leaned in the doorway, still fully dressed in what he wore the preceding day, a fine contrast to the very little that he himself wore. It was a pity really, that Aziraphale chose to wear so many clothes. Made it quite difficult, getting them off and all. 

Not that Crowley had had the privilege just yet, of tearing Aziraphale’s clothing off. Though he supposed he’d have to be delicate around those patterned buttons, the vest was quite form fitting-

“Crowley, you’re staring.” 

“Huh? Oh, bullocks, had a bit of a spacey moment there, my minds all… wibbly wobbly” he made little motions with his hands that did little to explain what he meant, but were entertaining nonetheless. 

For several following moments, neither of them spoke. The chattering of the streets below provided ample ambiance, birds having conversations that neither of them were privy to atop trees at such an untimely hour... There was the matter of the night before that they really had to get to at some point.

“... You are … a vampire, Crowley.” Aziraphale folded his arms over his chest and tilted his head against the frame of the door. 

“Well I’m certainly not _not_ a vampire, Aziraphale.”

The room fell silent between them. There was an elephant in the room that had still remained unaddressed - or rather more like a safari’s worth of elephants. A whole lot of elephants, stomping around and making a mess of things. Yet acknowledging them meant acknowledging what exactly they were to one another.

What they were not was enemies, that was something Crowley was fairly certain of. Enemies did not send each other dry flowers pressed into parchment or long winded letters about the state of Beelzebub’s unsightly hair and the foul odor that had followed Hastur for as long as Crowley had known him. 

Nor did they sneak off to private venues to share whimsical stories about their lives thus far and make fun of modern fashions. Enemies was off the table.

Though to call them friends felt wrong. Aziraphale was not conventionally attractive, whatever that meant. He was in shape, sure, he had to be. He was a hunter, there was a certain physical standard they held. Though he was also soft around the edges, he was pillowy and gentle. Frankly he was just Crowley’s type.

Crowley did not crave his friends, typically. He did not pine for just anyone. Regardless if Aziraphale reciprocated by any means, to label what they had as friendship felt insulting to its depth.

To label it as anything, that was the worst of offenses. Because what they had, though strong and everlasting, was also somewhat fragile. Their dynamic could change, for the better or the worst. They had principles. The nature of their relationship now already probed at those principles.

They held their gaze, gold and crystalline, bluer now. He wondered why. “Crowley…”

A knock sounded at the front door. Three firm knocks in consecutive order following two second intervals. Oh it was a hunter alright, Crowley could tell. And not just by the way Aziraphale’s entire body tensed as he bristled anxiously. 

It was because all of the members of “Aram’s Legion” had several sticks shoved right up there-

“Oh _dear_ oh… I need you to hide, I need you to find a place to nestle yourself and stay there no matter what you do,” he stumbled forward, kicking at the mattress. “Well don’t just sit there - go!” 

Aziraphale turned on his heel and within the blink of an eye, he was gone. 

“Couldn’t possibly have gone anymore balls-up now could it?” Crowley grumbled to himself as he slipped beneath the bed, listening carefully to the quiet pitter patter of Azirpahale’s steps as he approached the door. 

“Ah, Officer Michael,” he spoke pointedly, a little louder than usual. Probably forgot that vampires had heightened senses. “It’s a pleasure to be seeing you this morning.”

“Why are you yelling Aziraphale?” 

Crowley ran a hand over his face, shaking his head incredulously, “That’s what I said” he whispered to himself. 

“Oh, do excuse me, I’ve only just woken up, ears need a bit of a cleaning. Did you need something Michael?” 

A bit of a cleaning. It was a good thing Aziraphale never tried his hand at politics, couldn’t lie worth a damn.

“Well actually yes. I need to search your library, because I was just informed that last night a man in all black was seen limping down this street, towards this establishment. I’m sure you understand. And even if you don’t, that hardly matters.”

There was a pause between them, awkward and tense, so poignant that Crowley could feel it from all the way upstairs. 

“I… well yes, of course. I see no reason as to why I wouldn't allow you to… I did hear about what happened to you, pity that, you seem to be in better shape though. That is brilliant, congratulations on your quick reco-”

“Shut up Aziraphale.” 

“Ah yes… right then…” 

Crowley bridled at that, shifting where he laid beneath the mattress. Sure, he could tell Aziraphale to shut it whenever he pleased, but anyone else, well she simply didn’t have the right. His hand lowered down to the blade in his pocket, gripping it tightly. 

He may have also been just the slightest bit salty about being stabbed by her. That was no fun. 

She initially scoured the first floor, he listened as she shifted about, shuffled carelessly through corners of the library's main floor until suddenly she paused. All went still. 

"Is this your shirt, Aziraphale? I've never seen you wear black before."

"Ah yes, well I do have clothing that I wear indoors, away from the public eye, black simply isn't the most flattering on me."

"... Well you're right about that I suppose."

Once she’d done her snooping there, her footsteps creaked along the stairs and she began searching the second. There were only two rooms left. Aziraphale’s sleeping quarters and the bathroom, which was a fairly small room with nowhere to hide. 

"You said you just woke up?"

Aziraphale followed behind her, only a few feet away. He even walked nervously. 

"I did, yes."

"Why did you sleep in those clothes?"

"Funny thing that is, I was very preoccupied, reading the latest-"

"That isn't funny. I don't care."

Aziraphale lingered behind her, pausing at her words, "Well... you did ask."

"My mistake."

Her boots were black and pointy toed, had Crowley no resolve he would have gagged at the sight of them. But he remained silent, watching her approach, closer and closer, he gripped his blade tight, floorboards groaning with each ounce of weight upon them. She came so close to him that he could make out the little fibers atop the surface of her shoes, cat hairs and dust from the outdoors.

But when she went to bend down, Aziraphale cleared his throat, “Shall I make you a cup of tea Michael? Perhaps paired with scones, or a croissant?”

She arose from her position, her feet still directed towards Crowley, one of them tapped rhythmically against the floorboards. Impatience wafted off of her. 

“I could kill you, you know? No one would care. No one would even question it.” She turned on her heel to face Aziraphale and Crowley’s eyes widened. 

“P-Pardon?”

“I’d call it self defense, and then I would hunt the scum Crowley down because we both know who the superior hunter is here, two birds with one stone really. We’d be rid of the both of you.” She took one step closer to him and Crowley watched as Aziraphale backed into the wall, hitting it with a quiet thud.

“I do say Michael, this practical joke of yours, I don’t find it very funny I… I would very much like it if you stopped now.”

She didn’t stop. She didn’t say a word. She unsheathed her dagger and continued forward, one foot, then another, then the next. 

But then she did stop. She stopped quite suddenly. She stopped as though someone had gone out of their way to stop her. They had, that they being Crowley. He stood behind her, blade pressed into her spine, a very sensitive point, paralyzing her instantaneously. Her eyes were wide, a low noise escaping her lips as she fell to the side, slumping down onto the floor motionlessly. 

“Oh… Oh _fuck_.” Aziraphale cursed, staring down at Michael, sprawled across his bedroom floor, blood pooling out from the blade in her back. “C-Crowley what did you _do_?”

“Oh well I just finished the job, you do know she was going to kill you right?”

“Well, _obviously_ Crowley I’m not nickey but you cannot just - You musn’t… Oh but you already have… for Heaven’s sake Crowley.”

Crowley approached the body and poked at it with the tip of his foot, raising his brows and shrugging nonchalantly, “Quite the opposite actually… Well this about went down like a lead balloon hm?”

“... I thoroughly agree.” Aziraphale retorted remorsefully, twiddling his thumbs as he struggled to tear his eyes away from the body. 

“You know…” 

They would have to run now. There was no way that either of them could safely remain in this city, nor anywhere near it. Crowley had expected them to turn against Aziraphale eventually, he just hadn't expected that it creep up on them so quickly. They would be hunted, possibly by an entire faction of Aram’s Legion. The timing was awful. Especially considering what Crowley’s side had up their sleeves. 

A full scale armageddon. 

“I’m quite peckish.”

Aziraphale glanced at him and a chuckle passed his lips, he turned back to the body, then back to Crowley, who stood half naked and splattered with blood. “Oh good I thought I was the only one.”


End file.
